


Syzygy

by amb-roses (buckshot_lariat)



Series: One Hundred Ways to Say 'I Love You' [4]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 100 Ways to Say I Love You Writing Challenge, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Crush at First Sight, Crushes, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, ask to tag, bit of a-, dean is and isnt moxley, just as sami is and isnt generico, kinda? kinda.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckshot_lariat/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: 3. "No, no, it's my treat."The first time Sami meets Dean, it’s El Generico watching Jon Moxley through a screen. He's gross, but beautiful. Generico thinks he might be in love. He wakes up with shaking hands and unstoppable forces of nature dancing silhouetted in his mind's eye.When Dean and Sami actually meet, they aren't Jon or Generico. Maybe they never were in the first place. Memories like dreams, far away and second hand, another man, another life, another body so strikingly identical it makes you wonder.





	Syzygy

**Author's Note:**

> syzygy  
> n. a conjunction or opposition, especially of the moon with the sun.  
> a pair of connected or corresponding things
> 
> this was more of a practice chapter with some awkward oblivious guys bein doods slapped in so don't really take it as a chapter-chapter. aka mostly just follows sami trying to wrestle and get the mitb and. hating kevin at the time i guess. but also being a dork with a huge fuckin' crush bc why not
> 
> cross posted from the main fic (first work in the series)

The first time Sami meets Dean, it’s El Generico watching Jon Moxley through a screen.

He's gross, but beautiful. Generico thinks he might be in love.  

At first, he thinks of the sun, glorious and bright, high in the sky, warm and burning, but no. No, he's a different breed of light, a moon. A lull in the night, a lighthouse in the stars, ever present and ever changing, dancing across the sky so vibrant against the dark.

Generico feels like those little sea turtles. Moxley, the moon he feels instinctively magnetic to. Guiding him. But he's no turtle, and Jon no moon. He's all wolf, sharp teeth and ruffled fur, powerful shifting muscles and intelligent eyes behind brute strength.  

He's crawled from the bottom with raw fingers and blunt, human teeth, hanging on untethered in the hurricane by pure force of will alone.

Jon Moxley is pure, natural born human, spirited and forged through immense pressure, as the most beautiful things in life are.  

He's beautiful, in a gross sort of way. Generico thinks he might be in love.  

Channeled power, chaos incarnate in his bones, a solidness that he feels so hungry for, an apocalypse bound to the whims of a man who looks at the order of the world and laughs in its face.

Then he watches the drunk man bellow, take an unnecessary fork to the forehead, eat the pin, and he wonders if Moxley is any more than a delusional, fucked up man from a fucked-up situation looking for answers in violence and gold-leather championships.

El Generico dreams of blood dripping down furrowed brows, washing a face in its crimson. He dreams of insistent plant life, vines and stems and greenery, against all odds surviving the harsh brutality of the world, thriving in its beauty. He dreams of roses, prickly things, of teeth and claws, of rolling storms, all heavy pressure and lightning that crackles and deafens, torrential rain that batters incessantly and floods everything in its path.

El Generico wakes up with shaking hands and unstoppable forces of nature dancing silhouetted in his mind's eye.

When Dean and Sami actually meet, they aren't Jon or Generico. Maybe they never were in the first place. Memories like dreams, far away and second hand, another man, another life, another body so strikingly identical it makes you wonder.

Maybe Moxley and Generico became Ambrose and Zayn. Maybe they were always who they were now. Maybe Moxley and Generico relinquished control and Ambrose and Zayn took over. Maybe they were some form of reincarnation.

Maybe they were simply the same men they'd always were and would be.

Somewhere, somewhen, Moxley and Generico become Ambrose and Zayn, and pass each other in their orbits. Rollins to Ambrose and Owens to Zayn, both glimpsing past one another on the same spin.

Sami is, frankly, getting the shit kicked out of him by Jericho when he hears Ambrose from the announce desk for the first time.

“Y’know, I’m a fan of Chris Jericho, he’s a legend, I’m a fan of Sami Zayn, but I gotta admit I’m rootin’ for Sami Zayn–” and then he’s taking elbows to the side of the head and focuses back to the match.

It’s farther into it that has him on the outside, dazed, flying sharply into the desk with a dropkick to the head. He can faintly recognize the announcers jumping back like spooked rabbits, Owens on his right and Ambrose on his left unflinching as he tumbled off onto a knee, flopping over onto his back and side as the world spun ever so slightly.

“C’mon Sami,” Ambrose is leaning over him slightly, a tinge of concern, of worry. Of course, he doesn't want Jericho to win and Sami's doing a poor job of stopping it. _ I’m a fan of Sami Zayn, I gotta admit I’m rootin’ for Sami Zayn– _ “You alright?”

_ No, _ he thinks, _ everything hurts. I hate Jericho. I hate Kevin _ . Then, a little more focused,  _ you’re very rough edged and gruff. Not my type, but you’re pulling it off completely. Wow. Eyes–  _ Jericho crashes into his peripheral and he flinches away, eye contact broken.

Jericho darts away from him to attack Ambrose instead, the brawler emitting a growl( _? _ ) of surprise before taking the man with him into their corner of barricade.  _ Thanks. _

Sami is barely up, sweaty palms on the plastic covering of the desk, Kevin spitting insults at him from his comfy seat when Jericho rears back to him. It’s almost too easy to use the man’s momentum to throw him up and over, into Kevin’s lap. It’s almost satisfying, seeing Kevin sprawled on his back, cringing. Almost.

The match continues, both him and Jericho finally in the ring. Kevin’s down, thank god, and Ambrose lost to the pace of the match. He’s so close,  _ so goddamn close, just get up, Jericho, get up, get up, get up, _ when Kevin’s throwing himself into the path between the fallen enemy and his own boot, landing blows faster than he can block them. A headlock, more hits to the head that’s already topsy turvy, then Jericho recovering and joining, and  _ I was so close, so close, Kevin why? and Hurts, hurts, stop– _

It’s Ambrose, in all his furious glory, speeding in and cornering Jericho into the turnbuckles and leaving Kevin to take handfuls of him and corral him back into the opposite corner.

He could take Kevin. Kevin was a familiar brand of pain. He could handle him. The larger man peered over his shoulder suddenly, leaving Sami to hang, gasping on the ropes as he intercepted where Ambrose was looking for Dirty Deeds on Jericho. The satisfaction comes full force now, taking place in his lungs where he gasps. Kevin’s breaking it up but, but, an opening.

His muscles protest immediately at the thought, but he takes a burning lungful of air anyway and when Jericho rolls out of the ring, Kevin manhandling Ambrose into place for the pop-up powerbomb, when that sixth wrestling sense lines up perfectly, he snaps into a short sprint.

The Helluva Kick is as natural as breathing itself and he lets himself go boneless on the ropes afterwards, as Ambrose paces angrily behind him, Kevin sprawling once more out of the ring. All he gets is a slap on the shoulder from Ambrose and that’s the end of it other than a hard-to-read glance.

Sami thinks back to the man leaning over him, the way his dried-out hair bunched and curled in little twists, more blonde-ginger than anything dark when it's wet. Day or two old stubble, eyebrows crinkled, nose slightly scrunched, full lips tilted in a slight frown. His eyes, slightly reflective in the bright light of the arena, a stark blue-green-grey, a universe within them. He probably made some dopey face, lined with pain. Probably embarrassed himself. Ugh, that was annoying.

He has the strange ability to be able to lurk, Sami learns.  

Sami’ll be munching on a sandwich, maybe some coffee if anyone dares let him pour some, and  _ bam, _ there’s Ambrose, watching him and holding that eye contact for a few more seconds and then glancing away. Staring across catering. Staring at him from across lots after matches and flashing him a faint smile before disappearing. It’s weird as all hell, but Sami doesn’t want to bother him. If Ambrose has beef, he isn’t going to be the one to instigate anything. Bigger chicken to fry or whatever it is.

He doesn’t watch his doomed match with Lesnar the night of WrestleMania, licking his own wounds and pressing ice to bruises in the hotel afterwards, but makes a point to keep an eye on him. Most he does is keep an eye as they pass each other, not quite breaching each other’s bubbles but brushing by. He keeps an eye on him just as he did the same.

He's a wild sort of man. Messy, something untamable and too big for himself in a way. Sami wonders how nobody else sees it. He's bared, snapping teeth and spittle, almost feral if not for his sharp wit. Sami thinks he might be in love, as gross as the man seems to be.  

Sami stubbornly stomps  _ that _ out right there, but it keeps creeping back in with each shared glance, every passing tag they make.  

A match with rivals, a tag team here and there at house shows where he gets a pat on the shoulder or arm in encouragement, a half-hug and murmured  _ y’okay, Sami? _ , where something in him says  _ not yet _ and he acknowledges it and continues on his way. It’s not time, whatever that means, but that something has never been wrong, so he doesn’t question it.

They don’t seem to really see each other until Money in the Bank rolls around and they both qualify, nearing as the pay per view begins to wind up. It’s strange, their chemistry in the squared circle. Ambrose is out of the ring and Sami can easily pick up where he left off, vise versa, despite their different styles.

He moves for the flip over the ropes and Ambrose gives him a shove before and after his bounce for extra speed and power when he flips. He climbs up the ropes in their corner to rile the crowd up when Kevin’s got him in a tight hold, pushing himself between the top and middle to lean closer as Sami reaches for him, desperate after a kick-out at two.  

He shouts encouragement and means it, winces for him when Jericho and Del Rio take turns breaking him down, cheers when he barely manages a Blue Thunder Bomb on Jericho.

Somewhere along the way, Ambrose becomes  _ Dean _ , becomes a little less of that unchained feral he unleashes in the ring and a little more  _ him _ . Somewhere along the way, Sami becomes  _ Sami, _ meaningful, more than a simple word and wow, he really likes the way that not-accent of his rolls his name.

Sami becomes…  _ fond, _ against his will. The creeping feelings hook their claws in his chest and carve out a place for the brawler, right where it hurts.

He becomes fond, but he doesn’t have time for it. Money in the Bank, a foothold he desperately needs over Kevin, is right around the corner. That doesn’t stop that softer part of him from searching for the man at catering or backstage, before he leaves by himself to the hotels of the week. Dean Ambrose is a fever he can’t sweat out, and it’s slowly consuming him.

It’s a tag team match that accelerates everything at the worst time. The pay per view is nearing and he’s set to tag with Dean and Cesaro. He just wants to strategize. Strategy wins matches, especially matches with numbers. One lapse in their force, one wrong step or crack in their team and they could lose. A loss none of them wanted or needed right now.

“Guys, you gotta keep your eyes out for Kevin,” he urges. “He can’t be trusted.”

“Good point,” Dean muses, tapping Sami’s chest with a knuckle as he shifts from side to side in his antsy way that he identifies with pre-match anticipation and post-match adrenaline. “Good point, he’s Canadian.” He emphasizes Canadian like that explains it. Cesaro looks like he’s biting back a laugh behind his sunglasses, nodding along with a small grin.

_ What _ . His head snaps back a little in offence, brow furrowing. “Hey, what’s–”

“Don’t sleep on Chris Jericho either,” he continues, look at him imploringly and then in amusement, likely remembering their Asylum match. “He’s probably got thumbtacks in his tights still bothering him. It’ll put you in a bad mood, y’know what I’m sayin’? So, he’s pretty dangerous, too.”

Cesaro murmurs his agreement.

“He’s also Canadian.”

Sami doesn’t bother fighting the crinkle of his nose, the slight insulted twist of his face. “What is that supposed to–”

“And Alberto Del Rio,” Cesaro cuts in. “He’s a four-time world champion and former Money in the Bank winner and he’s capable of  _ anything.” _

Dean gives a good point gesture between him and Cesaro as the Swiss removes his sunglasses and gives his eyebrows a raise. “You can see it in his eyes.”

“You’re right, you’re right, you’re  _ always _ right,” Dean gives Cesaro a more focused look. “Is that like a Swiss thing?”

The suited man looks almost smug. “Yeah, you know, we Swiss have a proud history of sound judgement.”

They both look contemplative before Dean speaks up again with a shrug. “At least he’s not Canadian.”

“You–” Sami cuts himself off with a scoff. _ I can be right, too, _ something petty speaks up.  _ Not now, _ he snaps back. “You know  _ I’m _ Canadian, right?”

Dean blinks at him, wide eyed, once, twice. His eyebrows furrow and scrunch in studying thought, eyeing him up, before jumping up in whispered realization.

_ “Ooooh.” _ He looks to Cesaro and the Swiss nods in agreement. “That explains so much!”

Sami’s face crumpled. What was that supposed to mean? But both are walking away, Dean looking thoughtful and Cesaro still faintly amused.

Whatever. He didn’t have time to be mopey about dumb elementary school crushes. He had to strategize, even if the others didn’t think it serious enough. All that comes from the group portion of the meeting is Dean apparently  _ hates _ Canadians. Okay, no, that’s being dramatic, he doesn’t hate Canadians, but there’s a dislike. He’d thought… maybe he’d been reading the atmosphere wrong. Maybe it was the famous in-ring atmosphere, that supernatural, volatile energy that exists in and around the ring.

Whatever. _ Whatever.  _ It didn’t matter.

 

Sami feels fire under his skin where Dean stares him down, clenching and unclenching his outstretched hand and bouncing on the tips of his toes. It’s an itch in Sami’s veins that burns in the name of  _ Dean Ambrose _ despite his irritation at the man, that forces him up despite his pains and pushes him towards the man to tag him in; a small leap and a short tumble to the padded floor, as stiff as concrete for his efforts. Such was the way of the business, he grouched as he carefully probed and tested his welting chest and back.  _ Hello, old friends. _

The cool floor is kind to his irritated skin, but he peels from it to catch the man in action. Dean careens from one side of the ring to the other, ropes to ropes to turnbuckle to turnbuckle, brute strength and speed in a powerful combination that dominates Jericho and any defense the man attempts.  

Sami can’t look away.

That wildness, teeth and wide eyes and sweat and saliva, the tensing and releasing in his muscles and movement, the strong impact of footfall on the canvas, the speed and strength and coiled power of squared shoulders, thin waist, charged and ready, the angry panting and in-out-in-out breaths. A sharp pinprick focus and chaotic blows that give him phantom aches just watching. Intensity that’s so potent Sami feels like the match’s just started looking at him, being near him, that he could do anything. A thousand Blue Thunder Bombs, a million Helluva Kicks.

_ Hell, _ everything hurts.

Sami takes a few seconds to himself, charging back up. He wasn’t called Battery Man for nothing other than his own ditziness. He only bothers to pick himself back up to peer in again when a fan calls out in worry for Dean. Thankfully Cesaro intervenes, Dean pressing himself into an unoccupied corner to breathe and recover while Del Rio takes out the Swiss who’d been prepping Jericho for the Swing. He needed to intervene while they had the advantage of Kevin out of the ring and the other two mildly dazed.

He could get a Helluva kick if he timed it right, the way Del Rio was wobbling on his feet. He was in the wrong corner, but if he could swerve…

Sami catches Dean’s eyes, the man raising his eyebrows in question.  _ Do you trust me?  _ Dean stares and then hesitantly nods. The full force of his stare, of his attention, of his trust, nearly makes Sami lose his nerve right there on the spot.  _ You’re Sami freakin’ Zayn.   _

Right. He could do this.  _ Whatever you do, _ he begs himself as he dives between the ropes of their corner into a crouch and then to his feet,  _ don’t hit Dean. Or Cesaro, but mostly Dean. Don’t hit him, don’t hit him, don’t– _

Dean looks terrified and then something akin to awed when he breaks into a dead sprint towards him, nearly needing to slingshot off the ropes around the winded man at how fast and sharp the angled turn is, but he manages somehow. He almost doesn’t even land the kick at the speed of it, but the crack of his foot planting across Del Rio’s face was such a lovely sound, worth the stress. Worth that look on Dean's face.

Sami gets a half second of  _ that was so cool _ before he turns around and eats a Superkick from Kevin. Right on his jaw, the force of it making his muscles shriek and bones creak. Everything goes sideways for a moment as Kevin barks out a short laugh.

Goddamnit.

He catches Dean’s eyes for a half second, panic sparking to life in his chest as Kevin grabs him by the back of the neck, throws him into the ropes, and then into the air for the Pop-Up Powerbomb. He barely jumps it and takes the most ungraceful skid across the mat, barely catching the ropes to keep from an even nastier fall out of the ring as Dean takes the man by surprise in a second wind.

Sami lifts his head in time to catch the tail end of the Dirty Deeds, the concussive sound and physical rattle of the ring. Then Dean’s throwing himself over Kevin, pinning him and throwing a leg up, visibly shaking and shifting in excitement. The furious riff of guitar echoes into the arena after a loud  _ one, two, three! _ and Dean is back to pacing as Cesaro joins them and shit, Sami can barely stand for a few half seconds before flopping back to sit of the ropes, holding his zinging jaw.

But it’s a win, between the three of them. A small smile pulls at the corners of his lips, a sort of wonderment. They actually did it.

He catches Dean’s eye again, but he glances up and away from him to the briefcase hanging from the roof and suddenly he’s Ambrose again, pointing at himself, snapping his teeth and shouting about how the Money in the Bank was his.

Sami would be disappointed if he didn’t hurt so much, outweighed by aches, pains, and adrenaline.

From there it’s a few glances passed again, they all talk on ladders before the pay per view and while Dean isn’t particularly warm and fuzzy, he doesn’t snap at him. He says he simply wants to fight. Fair enough. They really are enemies in the match, after all. Simple few-time partnerships made only because of the match itself.

Maybe it really was a one-sided energy. The man is magnetic, and Sami just… didn’t have the energy to match it, he guessed. But it’s not the time to worry about it, as much as it nags at him like an itch he can’t shake. This was the turning point, steering himself and the championship in a new direction. Away from Kevin.

 

Sami takes a ladder to the stomach and a kick to the head. The worst of it is Del Rio hanging him upside down from the turnbuckles and repeatedly balancing the ladder to slam it into his chest. His arms aren’t enough to block it, firmly pinned as he kicks it over and over, eventually giving it up for another superstar when he drops his arms entirely.

And then everyone’s laid out except for Jericho, halfway up the ladder. It’s quick work scaling it and Jericho nearly punches him off, if not for Kevin throwing the whole ladder onto its side and tossing both from the cold steel.

Sami eats ropes and doesn’t get up for a solid minute when his ribs shriek at his impatient squirming and that weird phantom sensation in the back of his mind tells him to not get up, to give it a minute and test them before attempting anything.  

Then it’s Kevin. Kevin,  _ it’s always Kevin, _ and it’s fists and sweat and phantom blood and he’s lifting his rival completely and dropping him into the craziest, strongest driver he’s ever done in his life on the ladder and Kevin doesn’t get up and nobody else is there and it’s  _ his time, Sami’s time, it’s all up to this, _ steel under his fingers and shaking body, welts and bruises rising with him as he ascends.

The briefcase is under his fingers, under his palm, and he’s desperate, reaching and reaching and it’s so far away.

Two hits in with a ladder to the back that he sees it’s Del Rio again. Then two hits become four, become nine, and he’s up only because he had the passing thought to tangle his arms in the steps of the ladder at three. His back is one pulsing patch of red-hot agony and a DDT lays him out at last, black spots dancing in his vision as the crowd screams for him.  

He’s tired. So tired of fighting. Tired of absorbing blows and dancing in Kevin’s shadow, but he can’t give up now.  _ Can’t. _ So, he gives each limb a test and works himself slowly to his knees, the exertion and exhaustion weighing him down.

The fans power him the rest of the way to his feet, crawling back up and fighting Del Rio as he does, and then they’re all there, all six of them, the idiots, balanced on ladders and scrambling to the top. He’s stuck between beating Jericho to a pulp once more and getting the briefcase and then the case is in hand,  _ in hand, in his hand, right there, grab it! _ The rest fall like dominos until it’s him and Kevin, one on one once again, and for once he drops Kevin and he stands above, victorious. Not acidic or soured, just plain, untarnished victory.  _ Fucking finally. _

That other sense rushes forward in excitement and he’s climbing again, up and up and up and the case is in his hands and he’d be sick of the will-he, won’t-he if it wasn’t for the promise the case radiates. If he’s  _ enough, _ if he’s good enough, reaches enough, gives enough, it’ll be his– Jericho pushes him off, but he climbs back up and then Kevin’s back,  _ Christ, just stay down you bastard! _

There’s a moment where everything stills, everything silences, and then Kevin’s screaming his fury and Sami’s being Pop-Up Powerbombed into a ladder. There’re hands in his hair, shaking him, but he’s so far away, so detached from his own body that he can’t find himself to be angry or even irritated. He can already hear Kevin climbing to the top.

Sami doesn’t get up.

 

The trainers wrap him up in layers and layers of tape and compress packs and coat him in cream for the nasty bruises, already beginning to spot up in pitch blacks and blues. They focus on his ribs and give him a sling on his more irritated arm. No driving, they tell him. Fine, he was riding with Cesaro anyway, wherever the Swiss wandered off to sulk. He barely catches the end of the next match, Rollins and Reigns for the title.

Dean rushes out and cashes in and as bittersweet as it is, he’s glad it’s Dean and not Rollins. He thinks of that awed look on Dean's face, as bright as it was when they’d tagged, of eyes burning into him as he climbed ladders, and he thinks that same look is probably on his face as he watches him take the title. That euphoric of a look is so brilliant, so genuine and blazing he can feel his own mood rise with him.

Sami’s really having a shitty night unlike Dean, because Cesaro doesn’t answer any texts or messages despite agreeing that no matter the outcome they’d leave together. Damn it. He resolves to wait out the traffic of the post-pay per view before calling a taxi or whatever they have in Vegas after seeing their rental gone from the superstar lot. He's tired and hungry and everything aches. He wonders how Dean feels. Did he feel as aching? Did he have that new-title high? Did he feel as enraptured as Sami did with him? Did he wonder about Sami and he did him? Did he wander empty hallways thinking about him, like Sami did?

He settles with no and pushed exhaustion-numbed legs under himself for a walk. It'd be good, getting some life into his legs. Sami doesn't realize he's sulking until he turns a sharp corner and crashes into a titled body. His own shrieks in protest and suddenly he's becoming one with the wall because  _ hell that hurts. _

Dean seems just as bad, but that just makes his heart hurt rather than fill him like vindication like he thought it would. Idiot heart.  _ Stupid, _ he thinks when a weight lifts from his chest at the sight of the man who carefully picks himself up.  _ Stupid. _

“Wo-ah, Sami, you tryin’ to jump me so fast after getting the title?”

“No, no, I-uh… Cesaro left me. Gotta get back and I’m waiting for traffic,” the words fountain out of him. “Trainers said I can’t drive because of my arm so I gotta catch a different ride.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry.” He ducks his head and Dean’s blank stare, moving around him to continue down the hall.  _ Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't. Don't do it. It's a trap.  _ His heart stings in bitter irritation. _ It's always a trap. _

A hand catches his elbow and he flinches back, head whipping around. Hope trickles in and he stubbornly crushes it back down and out.

Dean looks almost bashful, focused squarely on the floor with a closed off expression. “Hey, uh, do y’need a ride?”

His lips thin. “If you’re going to be beat the hell out of me, you might as well do it here, instead of in a garage or a car or something.”

“No, I– Fuck!” He shouts, voice echoing in the enclosed hall, hands clenching and fidgeting with the sides of the belt’s straps where it was haphazardly slung over a shoulder. “I didn’t,  _ fuck, _ I’m bad at this. Sorry.”

“Look, Dean,” the man’s eyes dart to his own. Wide and striking, beautiful, really. “What do you want from me? Because I ache and I hurt and I'm caseless and titleless. What do you want that I can reasonably give you?”

“A date.”

Sami chokes.

“You don’t have to! I can just, uh, drive you back to your hotel. Or maybe pick something up on the way?” The way his voice tilts up at the end of the question in hope is barely there, almost non-existent.

“I should be getting you something, champ,” he spits out. Dean gives him a firm slap on the back that carries him a few steps forward and makes his back pulse in deep-seated sore spots. At least he looks apologetic, the same hand jerking towards his back in apology and aborting halfway through.  

If it was a trap, it was a well baited one. But if it wasn't… maybe he deserved this. Either outcome. It could hurt to try, but he was sick of weird wrestling politics. That something in him nags, pushes and pushes toward him, and that's the last it takes for him to give in. Everything could go wrong, but Sami was honestly just tired of trying to play every move slow and safe. 

“Let me buy you a coffee or something. A thank you for driving me, then. People like coffee, right?”

**“No, no, it’s my treat,”** Dean grins, something genuine and toothy. “Pick your poison, Samster.”

“It’s Sami and I’m thinking… I dunno, what’s open in Vegas at... too-early o'clock? That isn't sketchy?”

“Prolly, uh… donuts. Maybe like, a 24-7 diner or somethin’. I know a place. If you're interested.” Dean looked him up and down, squared his shoulders, widened his posture and then stared him down. Testing him? Maybe he was preparing for disappointment or teasing. Empathy sounded in his bones.

“Donuts it is, Dean-o.”

“Dean-o and Samster! That’s our new tag name!” His partner laughs, hiding a snort behind a hand.

“Oh my god, did you just snort?” That was adorable, holy shit.

“Hey! Don’t make fun of my laugh!” He looks mock offended and slightly conscious in equal measure.

Sami puts a hand to his back, giving as much of a smile as he can muster and managing something real when Dean leans into the hesitant touch. “Don’t worry about it. It was cute.”

“Cute,” he scoffs and begins walking in the direction of the lot. “Right. So, is that a yes? To the date thing?”

“Yeah. As long as it’s somewhere cool for the second. Like mini golf or like, a haunted house.”

Dean barks out a booming laugh. “A haunted house, hell of a second date, kid!” Then quieter, wonderstruck,  _ “the second date.” _

“What,” it’s Sami’s turn to be embarrassed by his slip up but he's known for fumbling conversation, so he rolls past it with practiced ease, “too cool for you, cool guy? Haunted houses are peak weirdness, okay? Where the lines of reality blur and spirits like ghosts and the supernatural can exist, that kinda stuff is neat. If I can’t get a boyfriend to fight a ghost for me, what’s the point?”

Dean beams. “Boyfriend, huh?” Damn, two strikes were all it took for Dean to call him out?

“Uh. Coffee! Coffee and donuts, right champ? Let’s go.” He takes his hand and begins quickly pulling him faster down the hall, heat rising to his ears and cheeks against his will.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean echoes behind him in a smile wide enough it’s verbal more than physical. “It was cute.”


End file.
